Gregor's Journey
by emjalen
Summary: A joint fic by LongLiveTheClones, spikala, Jade Max, JainDo, and emjalen! Together, we'll be exploring our newest addition to the cast, the Republic Commando Gregor, and his past, present, and future. Last chapter: How Gregor got his name. The cover art work was kindly provided by Joe Hogan on DeviantArt.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer- Sadly, none of us own Star Wars: The Clone Wars. That, and the whole Star Wars franchise, belongs to George Lucas.

_This chapter is by LongLivetheClones_

* * *

Just when things were going well, they dropped a bomb on him. Literally.

Gregor was already having problems with his memory. Being lifted ten meters into the air and slammed back down did not help matters any. He felt his back and shoulders take the brunt of the blow, but his head took a solid hit as well.

_Don't pass out_, he muttered over and over to himself like a mantra, _don't pass out_.

He couldn't move yet. His entire body was numb from the jarring impact.

Gregor reviewed the precious few pieces of information he'd learned from the small yet surprisingly, irritating creature known as "WAC" and his droid companions. _I'm a Republic Commando_, he struggled to hold on to the memories, even as his vision kept blurring. _Not Gregor the dishwasher._ _I'm a commando._

A _commando._

The word meant something. Everything. Much of his past life before waking up on Abafar was still a blank void to him, but he grasped on to the small pieces that he could remember. They were like weak tendrils and he clung to each one desperately, worried if he let go of a single one that he would be lost again forever.

_I'm a Commando_, he kept murmuring again and again as his head swam. He began to wonder if his name really was 'Gregor' or if that was just a name Borkus had conjured up when he'd snared him into becoming his indentured servant.

_Who was I before?_

A memory teased and tugged at the edge of Gregor's mind and then wisped away before he could pull it into focus.

All he was sure of was one thing.

_I'm a Commando._

He didn't know how long he lay there, but feeling began returning to his limbs. Feeling came back to his arms first. He pushed up to a seated position carefully, and looked around. All around him were the scattered remains of B1-s, rollies and super battle droids. Gregor realized he could identify all of the droids, and when he stared at the pieces a little longer, images of individual specs and capabilities for each one sprang easily to mind.

_Katarn armor can withstand a direct blast from a grenade._ The information flashed through his brain, and he didn't know where it came from or when he had learned it. He rolled to his knees and pushed up to his feet. He staggered a bit before finding his balance. But, he felt a thrill of victory, most pleased that he had emerged from the blast in one piece. He stared around him again, feeling immense satisfaction that he'd fared so much better in the explosion than all of the droids in the vicinity.

Sensing he wasn't alone, Gregor whirled around weapon in hand. The action left him dizzy and he planted his feet solidly, fighting to stay upright. It was easier this time, and he realized his sense of equilibrium was beginning to re-establish itself.

_I've always healed quickly from injuries. My body was bio-engineered to heal in the most efficient manner possible._

He knew was something special. He just couldn't put all the pieces together... yet.

He quickly scanned the area with his visor.

_There. Up on the ridge. Civilians._ He eased his weapon down.

He blinked, as more information kept coming back to him, almost like random flashes. _It was the duty of a Republic soldier to protect civilians._

A small crowd of gawking townspeople had gathered, trying to catch a glimpse of the recent destruction. Realizing they were not an immediate threat, Gregor let the muscles in his shoulders ease. He was just considering his next moves, when he heard _it_. His conscious mind didn't need to process the sound to register it as a threat. Some part of him immediately knew what it was and was taking action before the rest of him could even catch up. He had already taken cover behind the wreckage, weapon drawn into firing position, before he even realized he'd done so.

Moments later, a Separatist shuttle came into view hovering overhead. It circled around looking for a place to land. The entire area was covered with shrapnel and metallic fragments from the recent explosion, not leaving a clear landing site. Rather than give up, the tenacious shuttle pilot decided to _blast_ themselves a clear space. As Gregor watched from behind his makeshift hiding spot, the shuttle suddenly opened fire on one of the piles of metallic droid scrap. Pieces of blast shrapnel flew everywhere. Again, Gregor didn't even have to think. His body knew what to do on its own. He hit the dirt just as a deadly hail of metallic scrap blast fragments came flying at him. He heard the metal plinking off of his armor. He carefully unfurled himself as soon as the blasting stopped. He inspected his armor, which had some impressive new gouges and dings, but he was once again unharmed.

Gregor was suddenly assailed with a memory of the day he was given the armor when it was still new and unblemished. He heard a raspy voice in his head: _Don't always rely upon the armor to save your shebs. That kind of thinking produces dead commandos._

For a brief moment, he was able to recall a face to go with the voice. The memory began wisping away again and thinking about it too hard left Gregor dizzy and reeling.

The shuttle landed, and Gregor heard his sergeant's voice again: _Seize every opportunity. Sometimes a golden opportunity lands right in front of you._

Gregor stared at the shuttle, and realized it was his ticket off of Abaft.

_Alright, then, so, what did the Seppies send down to investigate this little explosion? More SBDs and rollies? Maybe a squad of commando droids?_

His mind immediately began calculating how many commando droids the shuttle could hold. His stomach tightened and he realized that even from what he could remember of his RC skills, he would have a difficult time with that many commando droids.

It seemed to take forever for the ramp to open up.

_Arrgh! How slow are these droids?_

He tensed up as he heard the clanking of metallic feet on the ramp. His finger tightened on the trigger of his DC-17m.

"What a mess!" chirped an overly exuberant voice.

"Who's going to clean _this_ up?" chimed an equally chirpy voice in the same exact pitch.

"Looks like a bomb hit it!" retorted the first chirper.

"You idiot! A bomb did hit it!" responded back the other.

Gregor stared in disbelief realizing they were both _idiots_. Information flooded through his brain. It was an entire squad of idiots, to be exact. They had sent a squad of B-1s.

He wanted to laugh with relief. B-1s were so incompetent they were only considered marginally dangerous, and that was only because the Separatists could produce them in such massive numbers. He shook his head as his mind kept pouring out more and more tactical information at him.

He rolled out from behind the cover of the crate and began targeting the B-1s with ease. Taking the droids down was such a laughably easy task for the commando, he almost pitied the machines for their inane stupidity and poorly thought out design. Almost.

He rushed forward and stormed up the ramp of the shuttle, kicking battle droids off the ramp as he went. He heard the civilians up on the ridge shouting something, whether it was encouragement or disparagement, he wasn't sure. But, he had lost all interest in the people of Abafar, if he'd ever had any in the first place. He was leaving.

He was a Republic Commando.

And, he was making his way home.

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_Please review and tell us what you thought! We love feedback :) Up next is from spikala and concerns the death of a dishwasher..._


	2. Death of a Dish Washer

**Collection Name:** "Gregor's Journey" by emjalen.

**Title: **"Death of a Dish Washer"

**Author:** spikala

**Rating:** K+

**Synopsis:** After retrieving his armour from the diner, Gregor tries to remember who he was as he dons his kit and prepares for battle.

**Word Count:** 1225

==o0o==

**Death of a Dish Washer**

.

Then with a swish of a door, he was alone in the hovel that he called home. Old memories tugged at Gregor, images of neat, orderly, grey walls and bunks, men with his face laughing with him. He searched for names only to come up blank. Yet another mystery hidden on the other side of the black wall that had haunted him all this time, sealing him off from whoever and whatever he was _before_. Before life as a dish washer. Before Abafar. Before Sarrish.

The droids and their unbalanced frog leader were patiently waiting outside for Captain Gregor, a man who Gregor wasn't sure even existed anymore. Surely if he was Captain Gregor, a commando, he would've found his way back to the Republic by now instead of languishing in the Outer Rim, washing dishes at Borkus' Power Slider? No. That was Gregor the Dish Washer talking. For the first time, Gregor paused. Did he want to be this man, this soldier in the Grand Army of the Republic? He had hoped earlier that seeing Captain Gregor's face in the mirror might trigger some latent memory, help him punch through that damnable black wall—nothing. What little he could recall of life beyond the wall, of Sarrish, was pain: pain ripping through his chest, throbbing ribs, and a stunning explosion of pain at the base of his skull.

Gregor rested his head in his hands only to hear a familiar phantom.

_"Get out of here, Cap! There's nothing for you here now!"_

It was the voice from his dreams. He'd always thought it was his voice, that he was the one breathing in painful, ragged gasps, teetering on the edge of control and calling out to the mysterious Cap. Hot wetness on his hands, coppery tang assaulting his nose, and pain. Always pain. But he was Gregor the commando, the Captain—he was Cap. So who did the mysterious voice belong to? Another clone? A friend?

"You're wrong," he whispered to the dying stranger. "There's nothing for me here either."

He couldn't stay seated anymore. Gregor leapt up and started pacing nervously around the room. He no longer doubted the little frogman about his origins. Seeing that holo had been startling enough, then there had been that ghostly barcode on the inside of his forearm. Both of which could've been faked. That much Gregor knew, even if he wasn't sure how he knew that. What couldn't be faked was his body's reaction to the sudden appearance of a man in his apartment. He'd come up in a fighting crouch, ready to deal with what had startled him—no dish washer did that. Then again as they'd left the diner, he'd looked at his boss, Borkus, that lying slimeball, with new eyes. The eyes of a clone, a soldier of the Republic. Noting weak points, places that when struck would inflict crippling pain, other places that would pinch nerves and cause temporary paralysis or even permanent damage. It had scared him. No, wait, that wasn't right. It had scared Gregor the Dish Washer. Gregor the Soldier—Captain Gregor—had just watched dispassionately, calculating the most efficient way of inflicting pain on another sentient.

He reached up, fingers probing the old, raised scar tissue that ran underneath the dark hair at the nape of his neck. It still throbbed from Borkus' blow earlier. Sprawled over the precious crate of armour, remembered pain and flashes of memory had overwhelmed him and by the time he'd clambered to his feet, it was all over. But the wall had cracked. He'd seen glimpses of the other side. If he stayed here, he'd never find out who he was, who the dying stranger was. The only way out was forward, to find the Soldier and leave the Dish Washer behind.

Gregor picked up the helmet and set in on the bed beside him. He wasn't quite ready for that yet. Instead he plucked a piece of smooth, grey armour out from the crate. He held it against his bare forearm, feeling the cold of the plastoid against his skin. Memory stirred, seeping through the cracks in the wall. He saw an arm, his arm?, reaching for someone… something… ramming into the neck joint of a commando droid. No, not his arm, a knife. Warm dark liquid sprayed his T-shaped world and Gregor the Dish Washer remembered the glint of a black-smeared knife as it retracted into his gauntlet. Gregor pressed a small, concealed stud on the plastoid. With a _kachonk_, a blade sprang from within the gauntlet. He ran a cautious fingerpad across the blade; a red line appeared. _Still sharp_, he thought as he sucked on the cut. _Tucked away for all this time but the edge is still there. _

With quick, efficient movements, Gregor stripped off his clothing—the scent of stale grease and old food clinging to them—and donned the skin-tight, black body glove that was emblazoned with the eight-rayed roundel of the Republic. He clipped on piece after piece of matte-grey armour. His hands seemed to remember, even if his head didn't and before he knew it the crate was empty and he'd donned every piece of the strange-yet-not-strange armour. Everything fit him perfectly, its weight settling into place as though it were part of him that had been left off all of this time. Only the helmet remained sitting on the bed beside him, its blue visor glinting in the light of the room. He reached for it then pulled back, hesitant. Once he put that helmet on he would be CC-5576-39, Captain Gregor. Gregor the Dish Washer would be erased.

"_There's nothing for you here now." _

Before he could overthink things, Gregor grasped the familiar-yet-not helmet and slid it over his head.

Blackness.

Gregor looked left and right, searching for a sliver of light, but saw nothing. He blinked rapidly, trying to see into the blackness and the screen flickered into life. It was the T-shaped world from his dreams—his nightmares—ghostly strings of data overlaid on the world around him, gently whirling circles and pulsing bars of light. It felt… right. As though his arm had been asleep this whole time without his realising and it had just woken up.

"Too bad this thing doesn't have a memory bank," he muttered.

As he spoke, luminous letters flickered across the top of the screen.

[Memory accessed. Select an Entry or Play All?]

"Play all?" he asked, voice hopeful, and a welter of images assaulted him.

When he emerged from the confines of his helmet, Captain Gregor felt like he had aged by years.

He remembered.

He remembered the blood bath that was Sarrish. He remembered seeing his squad mates fall, hearing his closest brothers imploring him to leave them, to keep going. He remembered slogging across the muddy plains of a world that had fallen into enemy hands anyway. The colourful jungles of Felucia, the red sands of Geonosis, the stormy skies of Kamino. Laughter when things went well. Pain and suffering when they didn't. The rush before battle, the bone-sapping fatigue afterwards. The blood, sweat and tears of years of training as he pushed himself to be the better than the best because that was what he was. He remembered it all.

He was CC-5576-39. A Republic Commando. Best of the best. And outside was a Colonel who needed his help.

Captain Gregor checked his decee's charge, tucked his helmet under his arm, and left the Dish Washer behind. He never looked back.


	3. Best Served Cold

****Disclaimer- Sadly, none of us own Star Wars, nor the cartoon show. There would be more clones in this latest season if we did. Alas, it is all George Lucas's property.

_This next installment in the Gregor challenge is by Jade_Max, author of Captain and Commander. _

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**Best Served Cold**

"Hello, Borkus,"

The Sullustan turned with a familiar glare; a glare he remembered well these past months as the alien's ward - a role the GAR Colonel had correctly identified as closer to that of a slave. The hefty alien gave him a quick up and down and he knew what Borkus saw. Battle damage. _New_ battle damage. Scoring from the blaster bolts of the droids who'd managed to land lucky shots and a black and grey soot - the calling card of the explosion that had saved his life… but should have taken it.

After seeing the Colonel and D-squad away safely and destroying the Separatist presence on Abafar, there had been only one task left to him. Personal, but oh so gratifying.

Out in the open, at the rear of the diner near the trash heap where the Zilkin had first appeared to inform him of his true heritage, a heritage the alien in front of him had tried to rob him of, his gaze sharpened imperceptibly. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall opposite to the Diner's rear door, with one foot up for balance, he flipped a knife idly through his fingers.

The absent habit was a new memory from when his squad had been alive and well and his to command; before he'd failed them. Despite that, the memory remained and it was comforting somehow so the plain edge continued to spin.

Vibroknives were for amateurs who didn't know how to properly yield one.

"Gregor." the sneer in the Diner owner's voice was contemptuously. "As I predicted. Did your little green friend and his droids abandon you?"

"They made it away safely," the knife flipped idly from finger to finger, the blade catching in the dim light. "I chose to stay behind."

"No one chooses to stay on Abafar!"

"I had unfinished business."

"Business! Ha! You're not welcome in my Diner; go away."

"I go where I choose, Borkus," his smile was pleasant as the knife continued its rounds. "Especially here."

"Your precious Republic has no jurisdiction here."

"Did I say it did?"

"I am through with you, Gregor; come back again and I will shoot you dead!" Turning to go, the Sullustan reached for the door controls.

The sudden _swish_ of the blade leaving Gregor's hand drew a satisfyingly and appropriately frightened cry from the Diner's owner as it sliced in between his spread fingers on the activation pad and deep into the electronics.

Borkus spun.

As anticipated.

The moment the knife was in the air, Gregor had begun to move, timing his actions with precise calculations, his arm outstretched. As the knife hit, Borkus spun, setting himself up nicely into the 'v' of Gregor's gauntleted hand. Squeezing just enough to cut off whatever sharp retort would have been gasped in his face, Gregor went eye to eye with the portly alien.

With barely so much as a blink of an eye, his fingers flexed and the Sullustan's face bulged as he panted, gasping for breath, clawing in effectually at the grip on his throat. "The thing you didn't know about clones, Borkus, especially _Commandos_, is that we have long memories."

"Ha! You... had no... memory... when I... found you!"

"No; I didn't," Gregor narrowed his gaze. "And you exploited that. I remember who I was, _what_ I was... and I remember every detail of my time with _you_."

"I saved your life," Borkus wheezed out desperately. "You _owe _me!"

"I owe you nothing!" Gregor snapped. "Whatever debt I owed you is long since paid."

"You'll never work - urk!"

"Did you know," Gregor flexed his fingers deliberately, his tone nearly conversational, his anger a simmering kind of cold rage that gathered in the pit of his stomach waiting to explode, "there are three hundred and twenty one _known_ ways to kill a Sullustan?"

"You would- ugh!"

Gregor continued as if Borkus hadn't spoken. "Just under half of those are with one's bare hands. Shall we try for three hundred and twenty two?"

Clawing at the clone's hand, Borkus let out a strangled cry but Gregor's grip was implacable. With a further squeeze of his fingers, he felt the dual trachea touch, making the Sulllustan's eyes cross. With a hard smile, he briefly curled his fingertips…

…and let go.

Borkus hit the ground with a wet kind of squish, limp and boneless at Gregor's feet. Reaching down, he hefted the bulky carcass into the trash pile, knowing he'd wake sometime later. Sullustans were a hearty lot and while strangling his former employer certainly had merit, he had another form of revenge in mind.

He would be the last person Borkus would ever exploit.

Turning to the diner, Gregor pulled a length of det cord from his utility belt and set to work.

It didn't take long to rig the diner to blow, even with his limited supplies, and he left by the front door, closing it behind him as he mounted the 'Closed' sign for the last time. Walking away, he silently counted the paces in his head as he lifted the detonator in one hand. Without looking back, he depressed the remote trigger, the wash of heat across the back of his neck making him smile as he tuck the detonator away and unclipped his helmet from his belt.

The Sullustan's survival would now be on the good graces of the townsfolk he'd abused and extorted for so long. A shame he wouldn't be around to watch the aftermath fireworks but, if he'd read the trajectory arcing down from the skies above correctly, he had a shuttle to catch.

Slipping his bucket on, Gregor examined the information in his HUD - and smiled.

_fin_

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_As always, please review and tell us what you think about this latest chapter in the Gregor installment! We appreciate all your feedback. :)_

_I'm sorry to say that this might be the last update for a couple of days; my laptop has decided to have some severe technical issues and I don't know how long it will be until I can access the next chapter of this story. With any luck, you'll see a new chapter tomorrow, but it all depends on how fussy my technology decides to be. I'm apologize for the inconvenience. _

_On the upside, the next chapter will be by JainDo! If you're looking for some good one-shots on the clones, go check out her profile. _


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer- Star Wars: The Clone Wars, alas, does not belong to any of us, but George Lucas. We sure wish it did though!

_First of all, thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for being patient in this delay for the fourth chapter. Hopefully the next one will be up tomorrow without delay *crosses fingers* and my laptop will stop throwing hissy fits. _

_Now, the second to last chapter from JainDo..._

* * *

He woke up panting, swallowing a cry of warning. Warning to whom? And for what?

With a resigned sigh Gregor rolled over, willing his mind to forget the questions. He could never remember his dreams, may as well try to get some more sleep before-

BZZZZZZZZZ...

Swatting at his wrist to turn off the buzzing device, Gregor pulled himself from the tangled sheets and headed for the fresher. Had the wrinkles on his forehead always been that pronounced? He observed his reflection, wondering. Gregor would bet credits they hadn't been this deep two span ago. Must be the dry climate.

The beard was new, belonging to him, not the forgotten Gregor. He rather liked it, though he sensed forgotten Gregor wouldn't approved. New Gregor often got the feeling his forgotten self disapproved much of his new life.

But he could never be sure, since trying to grab the memories of his old self was like trying to catch the steam that rose from the cooking stove, or that clouded around him while he washed dishes - impossible.

Ignoring his lack of memories, Gregor finished his morning ritual, dressing in his cleaner clothes before drawing the satchel over his shoulder and setting off.

The walk to the diner was short, but with the arid air of Abafar Gregor had to wipe sweat from his brow as he stepped inside. "Morning, Mr. Borgus," he called.

"Gregor! You're late!" The fat Sullustan appeared from the storeroom. "I expect last night was profitable, yes?" He held out an expectant hand.

A muscle twitched in Gregor's cheek. "Y-yes, sir," he stammered, pulling out a small but carefully wrapped bundle that chinked as he handed it over. "I got double."

"Good! Good, now go to kitchen, we have hungry customers!" Then the Sullustan moved past him, happily ignoring Gregor and counting the credits in his hand.

Relieved to be left alone, Gregor stored his bag under the counter, ignoring the tolerant expressions the patrons a gave him. Everyone knew his story, thought him naive and gullible with his lack of a past and the memories to go with it.

"Innocent as a baby bantha," Borgus would say with his customary leer. Gregor wasn't quite sure what a bantha was, but he was sure he didn't like being called innocent. He had a lifetime of experiences and memories locked away. He may not remember them, but they were there, reemerging during the night to wake him with a pounding heart and more confusion.

One thing he knew with certainty: those were not the dreams of an innocent man.

The lack of memories and unremembered dreams caused the same questions to bounce around his head constantly. Where did I come from? How did I get here? Who was I?

"Does not matter." Borgus would always respond whenever Gregor voiced his thoughts. "You are here now, go wash dishes!"

But it did matter, to Gregor at least.

A slight commotion near the door drew his attention, but it was just Mr Borgus threatening one of his customers again. Gregor finished serving the patrons before heading into the kitchen  
with a stack of dirty plates. Submerging the dishes in the soapy water, he spun and scrubbed with an almost military precision, sending the clean dishes into the drying rack with a flick of his wrist.

Borgus came in, disgruntled. "Take out the trash!" he barked at the dishwasher.

"Yes, sir," he muttered, watching the Sullustan's wide girth disappear into the small office.

Soon, a vague feeling whispered. You will know soon.

Gregor grabbed the waste canister and stepped out into the alley, not expecting such a degrading act to change his life.

* * *

__**From JainDo: **A thanks to Jade_Max for assisting.

_Assuming all goes well, the next and final chapter should be up tomorrow, this one by me, myself, and I. As always, please tell us what you thought about this latest installment in the Gregor Exploration Challenge! All feedback is appreciated. :) _


	5. Legacy

Disclaimer- Sadly, none of us authors own Star Wars: The Clone Wars. We wish we did, but alas, it belongs to George Lucas.

_Legacy_

"Ladies and gentlebeings!" the announcer roared, "I bring to you the finale, the ultimate competition, the _last_ game, of the ICE BATTLES!"

His voice bounced off the durrocrete stadium as the audience roared in approval. Below the harsh glare of the lights, players lined up in the ice ring, forms distorted by their bulky padding, bracing themselves for the crush that was soon to come.

RC-5576-39 leaned in with his brothers as he waited rapturously for the referee to drop the puck onto the ice, directly between the two teams. The countdown boomed through the speakers.

_Five._

_Four._

_Three…_

"The Wampas are gonna' win!" his brother RC-9203 interjected. The clone shot him a nasty look, then snapped his head back to the screen.

_Two._

Another brother, who liked to call himself Sev, scoffed. "Are not! The Tauntauns are going to kick their _shebse_!"

_One!_

For RC-5576-39, time suddenly slowed. The black puck left the referee's hands, an abyss of color against the sparkling ice and colorful uniforms. When it hit, it bounced, rolling over once, twice…

Then the puck was hit with a the sticks used for playing, a piece of hardened wood curved at the bottom and wrapped with cloth where the players' hands rested, and the commando almost lost sight of the puck as players clashed together, sending the puck spinning across the ice.

His breath came faster as he watched the puck near the Tauntauns' goal…only to be sent spinning off halfway across the field of ice. RC-9203 booed as Sev cheered, but the clone ignored them both. Something fascinating was happening before his very eyes, something he had never seen or experienced before.

Every day, he and his brothers learned to fight and compete for war, to learn how to win in the fastest and most effective way possible. These human men though, that he watched through a commandeered holo-com, were competing for _fun_.

It was something RC-5576-39 had never considered before and it captivated him.

Breathless, he watched the players dance across the ice in aggressive, sweeping moves that took skill and speed and strength; a familiar but completely alien battle-field to him. As the game went on, both teams scored, neck and neck with each other. The Tauntauns would take the lead, only for the Wampas to steal it back, and the cycle would repeat itself.

As RC-5576-39 watched, one player caught his eye in particular. The human man had curly black hair, like himself, only longer, and to the clone's eye, this player was superior above all others. He had scored, the clone calculated, 67% of the goals against the Tauntauns. As he scored again, sending the puck flying in an arc that the goalie couldn't stop, RC-5576-39 found himself jumping to his feet, cheering with his fellow unnamed brother as Sev groaned, his head collapsing into his hands in despair.

"Noo!" he moaned, as the audience on one side of the stadium, dressed in an eye-watering shade of yellow, cheered, leaping to their feet and filling the air with raucous approval. As the players regrouped, falling back into position, the eardrum-splitting timer shrieked, ending the game.

"And Gregor Filoni decides the game in favor of the WAMPAS!" the announcer screamed through his micro-com.

Sev shook his head, muttering under his breath, but RC-5576-39 ignored him, and RC-9203, who was slapping him enthusiastically on the arm in shared excitement. Hoquet game scores and stats flashed up on the screen as the announcer babbled, but the clone's eyes were locked on one curly-haired player in particular, who was surrounded by his cheering teammates as fans tried to reach through the barriers to...well, express their excitement somehow, the clone supposed. Honestly, the loud cheering seemed enough, but many of the attending beings seemed to need to get physically close to the hoquet star.

The clone dreamily watched the screen, an expression that could be identified as _star-struck_ filling his face as the hoquet player known as Gregor Filoni rose to hero-status in his mind. His sergeant said there were no heroes, but after seeing the game, RC-5576-39 knew he was wrong.

"That's it!" he announced, his excitement speeding his words. "I know what my name's gonna be!"

RC-9203, who had Sev in a headlock, paused in place, making Sev cry out. "Yeah? What's is going to be?"

"Gregor," RC-5576-39 announced, voice firm. "My name is Gregor."

Sev scoffed as he squirmed out and away from RC-9203. "That's a stupid name," he sneered, dusting off invisible lint from his body-suit. "It doesn't sound clone-like at all."

The newly-dubbed Gregor scowled. "I don't care. Besides, you're just sore 'cause your time lost to the Wampas. And Gregor," he added, boasting, "is the best player ever!"

RC-9203 chimed in his agreement, and Sev glared at them both. "I don't what you two think," their brother informed them. "It's a stupid name, and I'm going to bed. We were supposed to be asleep hours ago; we're going to get in trouble."

RC-9203, being the one who had stolen the holo-com in the first place, objected strenuously, but Gregor ignored his two brothers as he climbed up into his bunk and closed his eyes.

He had a name now, a real name, not just something his _vode _made up. _His_ name was a _civilian _name, automatically better than any clone name. He wondered how his sergeant would react- and if the bounty hunter had noticed his holo-com was missing. Gregor couldn't make himself stay concerned though. He had a _name _now.

He couldn't wait to tell his other brothers.

* * *

_I hope you enjoyed reading this, and please don't forget to review!_

_To head off some questions first though: One, RC-5576-39 is Gregor's identification number. While the show announced it as beginning with CC-, the proper, established start to the identification of a Republic Commando is RC, not CC, which is used for clones trained specifically for command. The two groups receive completely separate training and work in totally different environments. _

_Those of you who have Karen Traviss' __Republic Commando__ series will recognize the name Sev. As she said multiple times in her books that names such as Sev and Fi were common, I took that as is. So no, the Sev here is the not the Sev of Delta Squad. _

_Hoquet is the old-fashioned name for what we would recognize now as the modern game of hockey; a thanks to JainDo for researching it for me!_

_This is the last installment of the Gregor Exploration Challenge; I hope you all had as much fun reading it as we writing it!_


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